


They're green, and they light up the sky.

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Tilted Sideways [1]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: What does it take, to break a man?And for that matter: what does it take, tohavea man?





	1. On the cruelty of lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Because if Dawson _had_ turned out to be a murdering sociopath, I might actually have liked her. And because that idea and its consequences, especially on Casey, is not something that wants to leave my head.
> 
> Written under the influence of a three-days headache, so that explains the writing style (if not my masochistic urge to post when I've got other things to finish).
> 
> Now finished! Here's to hoping that last part was worth waiting for—it's _a lot_ longer than I had planned, that has to count for something.

When he finds out, he can't take it.

He's been barely hanging on, already, clinging to his job, his rank, his friendship with Kelly, when Kelly isn't busy with Kidd. He's been barely hanging on, with the tip of his fingers, not really knowing why he's still fighting.

Antonio stands there in Matt's office in the firehouse, eyes red-rimmed and heavily-bagged, and says "I'm sorry." Just _I'm sorry_ , and he leaves, looking like a man twice his age with the world on his shoulders. And Matt can't even bring himself to feel sorry for him.

He's not sure he feels anything.

Except crushing despair, maybe. Worthlessness. Like he's nothing—deserves nothing because he's _nothing_. Like his father used to tell him.

He's been barely hanging on, not really knowing how or why, but now he can't anymore. It's too much. Too much, too many losses, too many losses because of him. _For him_ , because of him—same thing. _For him_ , like he's a thing. Like he's nothing.

A pretty doll that a little girl wanted. That a little girl wanted to steal from the other girl.

 _She's sick_ , Antonio had said, and _She doesn't realizes—she didn't know—she doesn't think like you and I_.

She thinks like a little girl. And he's just a pretty doll.

That's what Hallie died for: the pretty doll she owned, so Gabby could have him.

He can't take it.

 _We're getting her institutionalized_ , Antonio had said, and _I'll tell Hallie's family myself, don't worry_ , and _I don't think you should see her_ , and _I'm sorry_.

I'm sorry. Hallie's family. After all this time. After all this time, after thinking the investigation closed, after thinking it was an horrible case of wrong-time-wrong-place, an horrible something-to-do-with-drugs in the place she was volunteering in because she was such a good person—after thinking Matt was just the bearer of bad news, the grieving fiancé...not _the cause_. Not _the reason_.

The fucking pretty doll Hallie got killed over, because she'd come back for him and Matt had gone back to her and Gabby fucking Dawson had wanted him.

Wanted him enough to get Hallie killed—to manipulate and use and commit murder and never even feel a shred of remorse.

 _She doesn't feel things like you and I_ , Antonio had said. _She doesn't feel regular things, just..._

He thinks back and wants to die: Smugness. Pride. Self-satisfaction. Envy. Jealousy. Rage.

 _Don't blame yourself_ , Antonio had said, and _You couldn't have known_ and _We didn't know either, I didn't—I never saw it_ and _I'm sorry_.

Sorry. Sorry is not going to bring Hallie back. Sorry is not going to erase four years of Matt's life—four years of _memories_. Of Gabby being there, smiling at him, of her comforting him about Hallie and never meaning a word of it.

 _She doesn't see anything wrong with what she did_ , Antonio had said, and Matt wants to scream, and cry, and scream and cry and scream and cry.

He can't take it.

Can't take it was _because of him_ , can't take he played right into it, can't take he was _grateful_ for her, grateful for every scrap of pretend-affection, for everything she deigned throw in his direction, enough to call her his miracle, to waste precious oxygen to tell her goodbye, try and express just how _grateful_ he was, how much he loved her.

He can't take that he loved her. Can't take that even now, a part of him still does, even now, even knowing _this_.

He can't take it.

He can't take that after all this, the length she went to to have him, the pretending, the casual way she left him, then came back and left him again, no one would have known, no one would have _ever_ known, if it hadn't been for a fucking technical routine.

Just an Arson technician consolidating the database by properly cataloguing every print and partial print and little scrap of DNA ever found in an arson case. A six-years-old half-burnt hair in a plastic bag, and Antonio setting out to prove his baby sister's innocence and ending up with the complete opposite.

He can't take that no one would ever have known, if it hadn't been for her exasperated explanation to him, that Hallie hadn't wanted to disappear and she did _nothing wrong_.

And for Antonio to be horrified enough to be a cop first, and a brother second.

He can't take it. So he leaves. He doesn't know how he gets home, doesn't even think he's said a word to anybody, just walked, and walked, and walked.

He still lives where he lived with her. He can't take that, either: that it's the same place, that it's where Katya died, that he's never moved because she liked it here—because she liked it here even after Katya died, even after he'd had to hire a specialized cleaning crew to get the blood off the floor and could still see it anyway and never had the guts to tell her.

He can't take that everything reminds him of her. The apartment, the firehouse. His truck. Even his clothes. He can't take it.

He shows up at Kelly's one night, sleepless and tired to his very soul. _Take as much time you need_ , Boden had said, and _Whatever you need_ , Kelly had said, _whatever you need, I'm here_ , and _We're all here for you_ , Hermann had said, and some of the others too, and he'd thought of going away for a while, but it had made him think of Hallie's death and it had made him think of Gabby and he couldn't, so he shows up at Kelly's one night.

He doesn't know what time it is. Gabby had liked grabbing his wrist to check the time on his watch, so he doesn't have a watch anymore.

It takes a while for Kelly to open the door, and when he does he's bleary-eyed and wearing just his boxers. "Matt?" he says, and for the life of him—for nothing in the world, Matt can't stop the avalanche of words.

"You told me something," he says, "once, when I got that head injury," and "you told me something, after—after Shay died—you told me something—"

But he can't finish—doesn't even know how to—because Kelly is frozen there staring and shivering and with a hand reached out, and Kidd appears behind him, in nothing but Kelly's sport jersey, the one he only lets women he really, really likes wear, and didn't Matt laugh about that with Gabby once?

"Casey?" Kidd asks, and Kelly asks "Matt?" again, and reaches toward him again and says something else, but Matt is staring at Kelly's jersey on Kidd and remembering Kelly's words to him, after Shay's death—and he can't take it, because now he understands how Kelly could have said that.

He can't take it, because he knows it's true for him now—because he's nothing, and Kidd is wearing Kelly's jersey.

"I'm sorry," he says. And he leaves, and Kelly doesn't follow him, because it's nighttime and he's bleary-eyed and wearing just his boxers and he has Kidd there with him in nothing but his jersey.

Matt has no one. Just the cold and the clothes on his back and the wind howling something in his ears as he walks away.

He can't take it. So he leaves.


	2. On the kindness of strangers

He doesn't even know how. He's near the lake at some point, and he throws his phone into it when it keeps ringing, because Gabby had liked borrowing it and taking pictures with it and changing his ringtones. He's near a road at another point, and then somehow he's in a truck, and a burly, jovial truck-driver is asking him "Where're you going, kid?"

"Away," Matt answers.

"You on the run from the law or something?" the truck-driver cheerfully asks again.

"No," Matt says.

And that's that. When he gets his bearings enough to have to decide on a direction, later, he goes north, because south makes him think of Puerto Rico and Puerto Rico makes him think of Gabby. And he can't think of Gabby.

So he goes north.

Occasionally, he does odd jobs. People give him food, or warm clothes, or some money to buy either. Occasionally, he gets offered a place to sleep, a warm shower. He accepts it like he accepts everything except any kind of touch: with a tired passivity, an empty resignation. He can't find it in himself to feel even slightly grateful—can't find it in himself to feel anything. When people get too close, he leaves.

He tries not to let himself think. If he's tired, he doesn't think, so he walks a lot and hitches rides only when he gets offered some. He eats when he gets offered food, but it's more a polite habit than an actual desire to keep on living. His stomach hurts more often than not, but it's an easy thing to ignore. He sleeps when and where he can, but only if he absolutely has to. If he's tired, he doesn't dream. He doesn't want to dream, just in case he dreams of—he doesn't want to dream.

Sometimes, people are persistent, in their single-minded determination to spread good will and help and warm food and clothes and showers and places to sleep. Sometimes they back off just enough, need help _just enough_ , that he can't really resist, that he has to stay, a little, has to make sure it's all reasonably okay before he leaves. That this girl has money for the bus back to her parents' or that this old lady makes it to the shelter or that this man has a pair of shoes. He teaches a few people how to make safe garbage fires, and then a few more, and a few more still. Gives away his coat, his sweater, his socks, and does it all over and all over again every time he gets offered replacements. _It's nothing_ , he tells people, and for him it is, for him it's normal. Normal because they're all worth more than he is, because he can never resist helping.

But when they try to hug him, when they try to help _him_ , ask too many questions, get too close, he leaves.

He doesn't talk much. He never gives anyone his name. "I'm nobody," he says, if they ask too insistently and he can't leave yet. It raises less good intentions than answering _I'm nothing_ would. Any other questions he deals with the same way: he's nobody from nowhere and he doesn't want anything.

Except to help a little. If he can. But he doesn't want _anything_ —not for himself.

"You should go home too," people tell him, sometimes. All he ever answers is "I have no home."

He doesn't know if it's a lie—doesn't care whether it is or not. Shame doesn't touch him anymore, and neither does pity or compassion, gratefulness or hunger. He barely feels the cold. He has no home, because home had always been people to him, not buildings. Home had always been love—people he loved, people who loved him. Before. But he's nothing and he has no one, and therefore he has no home.

Homes are for other people.

For people who matter more.

It's only once that he buys something for himself. He's very high up north, it's freezing cold, and there's polar lights almost every night and it's really, really beautiful. He buys a postcard of them, and a stamp, and tells himself that's because buying a postcard without a stamp is weird and it's beautiful here and people don't ask too many questions and he'd like to stay a little.

The lady at the local shelter offers him a pen, and it's only once he's sat down in a corner and written _Kelly Severide_ and the address of the firehouse on the postcard's right side that he realizes what he wants—that he _wants_. That for the first time in forever, he _wants_ —he'd like something and _he wants_.

Wants to show Kelly.

Stay here a little, and show Kelly, because it's beautiful and he thinks— _knows_ —Kelly would think it's beautiful too.

But he can't, can he? He's nothing. He has no one. He's not Kidd. He doesn't have Kelly.

He has no right.

No right to disrupt Kelly's life. No right no bother him.

He stares at the blank left side of the postcard for a long, long while. At the perfectly-positioned stamp. Someone else could have used it, if he hadn't stuck it on. Or used the postcard, if he hadn't already written on it. But now they can't. And he's not going to send it.

He's not going to send it.

So he writes _I love you_ on the left side, and _I miss you_ , and _I hope you're happy, I only want the best for you. I love you so much, Kel_.

He stares at it until his eyes get blurry and wet and the lines get blurry and wet, and then he gets up and dumps it in the garbage can and leaves. Leaves the shelter, the city, the area, and any last shred of _before_.

There's more polar lights, but he doesn't look at them.

It hurts too much if he does.

He goes on like that: helping people, leaving, helping people, leaving. It's an existence, and it's as good as any. Maybe it even makes some sort of sense. He doesn't let himself wonder, just moves on and on when he can. He has no home. He can't go back.

Eventually, he gets tired. The constant moving, the cold, the lack of food—he doesn't know and doesn't care. He's tired. He's almost relieved. Where he stops isn't bad—woodsy, quiet, not very populated. Cold, of course, with bears and wolves around sometimes. He doesn't know about living, but it's not a bad place to stop, to be.

To die.

It has polar lights too, and he watches them now, sitting against a tree on the edge of the forest overlooking the sleepy little town, after his shift in the sawmill the local sheriff had directed him to when he arrived.

They're still beautiful.

And they still make him think of Kelly.

But he can't go back.

And he thinks he might be too tired to, now, anyway.

So he stays there, and he works in the sawmill—for lack of anything better to do, since no one else here seems to need help. He gets given cash and sleeps in a little room that's actually warm, and he does eat, though the lady renting him the room thinks it's too little. He doesn't talk much, and they don't ask questions, and he weirdly fits in a little, maybe, in a way.

He sleeps, too. He dreams of Kelly. He likes dreaming of Kelly.

And he watches the polar lights, and cries a little, sometimes, sitting there against his tree daydreaming of Kelly.

He's tired, but he's okay. He's relieved. He has nowhere to go, anyway.

He doesn't have Kelly.

But he has his dreams. His dreams of Kelly. His dreams of Kelly with him.

It's enough.

It's more than he deserves.

So he's okay. He's a little bit grateful. He's okay.

He watches the polar lights, and he dreams of Kelly, and he's okay.

He gets out of breath climbing up the hill, and sometimes dizzy, and he nearly looses a hand a few times in the sawmill, and he often falls asleep against his tree, and he's cold all the time, cold even in his warm little room, but he's okay. He's okay.

He's okay, and people leave him be, and he watches the polar lights and sleeps and dreams of Kelly. He doesn't care what'll happen to his body.


	3. On Impossible Things

He doesn't think anyone cares either—doesn't care whether anyone does. Which is why he doesn't answer the knock on his door: he's paid the week's rent already, doesn't talk much, has no one, so it's obviously a mistake. He turns around, buries deeper under the covers of his small bed, and tries to go right back to Kelly.

But the door says "Matt?"

In Kelly's voice.

He turns back around, sits up, and, hugging his pillow, stares at it.

Because surely he's hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or asleep.

"Matt?" the door asks again, making another knocking sound.

He hugs his pillow tighter. Stares.

"Matt?" comes that voice again. "Matt, I know you're in here, I... It's me, Matt. It's _me_. Please open the door."

And Matt stares and clings to his pillow and stares, because surely he's hallucinating, surely if he gets up and opens that door, Kelly won't be there. Just the empty hallway.

Because there's no such a thing as a miracle. He thought there was, but that was a lie. If there's miracles, they're not for him. Nothing is for him. Just the cold and...just the cold.

And maybe the polar lights, a little, in a way.

So Kelly can't actually be here. Not actually be here, and certainly not for him.

"Matt," the voice continues, "I know you're here—Gina—your landlady—she saw you come in—" A little pause, and: "Two days ago. Nobody's seen you for _two days_ Matt, nobody's seen you—I'm going to _break down that door_ if you don't answer—"

The voice breaks first, but Matt doesn't want to cause trouble, and broken doors are trouble: he shakily forces himself to stand, goes to his door and cautiously pulls it open.

And Kelly's there.

Kelly's _there_.

He's not a dream: the Kelly in his dreams never looks so worn, so worried. So _wrecked_. It's even worse than that time in the woods, after Shay's death: he's older and thinner, with his hair growing curly and grey, his stubbly jaw sharper and more wrinkles on his forehead and around his tired, glistening eyes.

"Kel?" he's whispered before he's conscious of it.

Kelly's eyes light up and his mouth falls opens—forms a disbelieving, irrepressible grin. " _Matt_ ," he says, like it's the most precious sound in the world, " _Matt_."

And just like that, he's the most beautiful sight Matt has ever seen. More beautiful than even the polar lights or the Kelly of his dreams.

But he takes half a step toward Matt, hands reaching out in his direction, and Matt...Matt doesn't know how to deal with this: Kelly shouldn't be here, and even the thought of touch is a distant, alien memory now, something for other people. He shrinks back, automatically, half behind the door. Kelly stops. There's mud on his boots.

"Did," Matt croaks, "did something happen? To Kidd? Or..." He doesn't know how to continue. He doesn't know why Kelly would be here. Or how.

Kelly's head cocks a little sideways, gaze narrowing slightly. The smile on his face has turned sad, but the light in his eyes hasn't dimmed. He leans against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket now. "No," he answers, voice like those dreams of kindness Matt can barely remember, "why would you think that?"

"You're...here," Matt whispers. Nothing else makes sense. Kelly can't be here for _him_.

"I got your postcard," Kelly says, and there's something...fragile, in his eyes, screaming something at Matt. He doesn't understand.

"My postcard?" Matt repeats, "I didn't send my postcard."

Kelly just gazes at him, the little fragile thing softening. Like it can't break, just mold itself to things. "Well," he breathes, "somebody did. So here I am."

Matt stares, and after a few seconds, Kelly adds, with a soft, soft smile: "I missed you."

But he _can't_ have.

"I—I just," Matt tries again, voice breaking a little, clinging to his door, "I just wanted to show you the lights. They're green. They're beautiful. I—" He doesn't know what he wants to say.

He's said _everything_ in that postcard.

Said everything, because Kelly was never supposed to get it.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Kelly is already shaking his head by the second syllable.

"Don't," he almost orders, something screaming in his eyes again, "don't be, don't be sorry. Fuck, _Matt_ —" He sags a little against the doorframe, pinches the bridge of his nose, high up, getting the inner corners of his eyes along with it.

"I just wanted to show you the lights," Matt repeats slowly, miserably, lost and useless and _sorry_. Kelly shouldn't be here. He shouldn't look sad, and he shouldn't be here.

"Okay," Kelly breathes, looking back at him, worlds of _something_ in his eyes, brimming wet and more grey than blue in the harsh lighting of the hallway. "It'll be dark soon," he adds softly, "I'm here—show me your polar lights."

He smiles a little, soft and sad and that something Matt doesn't understand, lips curving up more on one side than the other, and straightens in the doorway.

"They're more beautiful from the hill," Matt says, unclenching his fingers from the edge of his door. Showing Kelly the polar lights, that's easy. That's something he can do.

"Okay," Kelly answers. "We could take my car?"

"There's no road," Matt mumbles, gaze falling back to the mud on Kelly's boots. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Kelly repeats—but it's all soft this time. "I'll walk with you. Do you have a coat?"

He does—it's a bit worn, but there's no buttons missing, and no holes in the pockets. He's already wearing it, like he's wearing all the layers he has to try and ward off the constant cold. So he nods, sliding his hands into it, not understanding why Kelly's asked. Or why Kelly sighs.

"Okay," Kelly says in the next breath, "shoes?"

He's looking at Matt's feet. Matt's socks do have some holes, but they're not big, and the knitting is thick. He's wearing his other pair under them—those are more worn down, but they're softer, and the holes are not in the same place. Their bright red show through the dull gray. Kelly is frowning.

Matt wordlessly scrambles for his shoes, fumbling a bit with the knot tying together the pieces of the right one's laces, and having to catch himself on the wall as he gets up again. He comes back to the door, and Kelly is still frowning, looking rigid and sad.

"It's not a long walk," Matt promises, "and they're really beautiful up there."

"Okay," Kelly says again, even more quietly. "Let's go, then." He moves back and sideways a little, leaving the doorway clear, and Matt shuffles through, closing the door behind him. "You're not locking it?" Kelly asks. It doesn't really sound like a question.

"I have nothing worth stealing," Matt confusedly explains anyway. The blankets and sheets came with the room, like the towel, he hides whatever extra paper money he has left inside the waistband of the old jeans he's wearing, and there's no one here that wants the thin joggers and too big pair of underwear he's folded into the pillowcase, or the shrinking soap by the sink. He only locks the door to be left alone inside. 

Kelly makes a little abortive movement toward him that has Matt automatically shrinking away again, but then his muddy boots step back and he clears his throat. "Show me your polar lights then, Matt," he croaks. "I'm right here. _With you_."

Matt nods, mutely. It still makes no sense and he... It still makes no sense.

Kelly walks next to him. Not too close—just close enough that Matt feels him there, without touching, without being overwhelmed. It's not a long walk, but it's a bit of a steep climb, and the thin layer of snow now refusing to melt away makes it slippery: Matt stumbles twice getting out of town and four times on the path up the hill.

Each time, Kelly catches him before he hits the ground. Each time, when he's back on his feet, Kelly lets him go. He doesn't say anything, simply continues walking next to him. Continues being there.

The seventh time Matt stumbles, _he_ catches Kelly's arm.

Like an old reflex, a rusty, instinctive gesture that's somehow starting to become familiar again. Familiar like the worn-soft leather of Kelly's jacket, under his numbed fingers—the blue-grey of Kelly's eyes in the darkening twilight: more remembered than felt or seen, but undeniably real.

Undeniably _there_.

"Almost there?" Kelly asks, whisper-soft and pure kindness, like a gentle, strangely omniscient echo of Matt's skittering thoughts.

"Yeah," Matt croaks. He's out of breath, and he doesn't think it's just because of the hill: letting go of Kelly, looking away from him, is the most difficult thing he's had to do in an eternity.

But it's just a few dozen yards now—Kelly walks next to him again, and then they're there and Matt flops down against his tree, panting, like a suddenly-stringless puppet. He's almost panicking and not understanding why.

There's no snow, under his tree, just a soft cushion of pine needles, wide enough he could even stretch his legs, if he wanted to. He doesn't want to: he's fighting for breath as quietly as he can, hugging his knees to his chest, eyes closed, half-dizzy and half-nauseated, sweat chilling in the cold air now that he's stopped moving.

" _Matt_ ," Kelly says, right next to him but not touching—just hovering warmly, voice filled with a whole _universe_ of something.

"I'm okay," Matt mumbles in a gasp, "just did—that last bit—too fast." It's not a lie: he never climbs that fast anymore. But he'd just...wanted to get Kelly here, before the last bit of daylight was gone, before it really became all green, and the walk had seemed interminable, suddenly, and he'd said he'd show Kelly.

He can't explain the rest—doesn't understand it, why removing his fingers from Kelly's sleeve felt like...like ripping something away from himself.

Something _vital_.

"Can you do something for me, Matt?" Kelly asks through the fog and the beating in his skull.

Matt nods as soon as the question registers, and then raises his head to choke "Of c—course." Because he'd do anything for Kelly, really.

"Breathe," Kelly's blurry, darkened form says in the grey-green light. "Breathe in, slowly. Good, now breathes out, slowly. Good. Breathes in for me, slowly—"

His voice is like waves on a shore, strong, even, everlasting, and Matt does as he's told—does as he's told without even a conscious thought: he'd do anything for Kelly, anything at all. Breathing for him, it's easy. It's something he can do.

"Good," Kelly is saying, "Breathes out for me again, Matt, slowly. You're doing good, again, breathe in, slowly—"

He does, breathing in, and out, for Kelly, like Kelly says, like Kelly wants, and Kelly's voice gets smoother, slower, softer, and his form gets less blurry.

"You're doing good," Kelly repeats, crouched next to him but not touching, all darkened and green. "You're doing very good, Matt, keep—keep breathing slowly for me, okay? Is it easier?"

It is, and Matt nods, and keeps breathing slowly, for Kelly.

"Good," Kelly repeats again, "keep breathing for me, Matt," he adds in a whisper, suddenly sitting down on the ground, just a few inches away but not touching.

"I'm okay," Matt breathes out, not sure of the look on his face.

"Of course you are," Kelly exhales, in something too sad, too worn out to be a laugh. He pinches the bridge of his nose again, high up, getting the inner corners of his eyes along with it, and rubs a hand over his face, presses it against his mouth, eyes closed—and Matt just watches him mutely, uselessly, clenching his fingers in his jeans, unable to do anything else for him but breathe.

It's dark, and green, any last shreds of daylight gone. Matt's breaths have stopped being so loud, gradually, his heart no longer beating too fast and no longer echoing, and the world is not foggy or dizzying or blurry anymore. "I'm breathing," he tells Kelly's crumpled form, wanting to be good for him.

Kelly shakes a little, silently, but then he straightens up, eyes dark and shimmering in the green lights, face half in shadows. He stretches a leg away from Matt, boot touching the snow, and brings his other knee up, arms going around it, resting his chin on top and letting out a long exhale.

Matt breathes in, slowly, staring at him, and Kelly breathes in with him, staring back. He breathes out, slowly, and Kelly breathes out with him, to the same rhythm, not looking away.

And for a while that's all they do: just breathe, slowly, together, staring at each other in the green of the polar lights.

By the time the side of Kelly's mouth curves up a little, on the side of his face Matt can see, Matt has stopped thinking about it, doing it automatically, simply by watching Kelly breathe with him, like the most natural thing in the world.

"They're green, uh?" Kelly says softly, that little half-smile in his voice too.

"And beautiful," Matt answers, "really beautiful." But he's not looking at the polar lights: Kelly is more beautiful than they've ever been.

"Yes," Kelly echoes, "beautiful."

He's not looking at the polar lights, either, and Matt almost stops breathing again, mouth dropping open wide in shock—but Kelly turns half-away before it truly registers, face now toward the sky and teeth clamped on his lower lip.

Matt has to cough for his next breath, but Kelly doesn't say anything, just breathes next to him, slow and regular, gradually unclenching his teeth, posture relaxing little by little and taking Matt with him, until breathing is an automatic, natural action again, and he's just watching Kelly's profile in the green lights.

Beautiful isn't a strong enough word to describe him, really.

And Matt still doesn't understand why he's here, or how he can be, but he _is_ here, and Matt is feeling something inside him, stirring—something old, familiar, and _starved_. Desperate.

Like a faded, yearning dream of warmth. Of belonging.

They sit there in silence and he watches Kelly watch the polar lights, just there right next to him, beautifully real, and it grows in his chest, tiny little bit by tiny little bit. A minuscule weak thing made stronger by Kelly's presence.

He watches Kelly watch the polar lights, and eventually he shivers a little, uncontrollably, and Kelly notices: he pulls an emergency blanket from inside his jacket and stands to unfold it. It crinkles and shines in the green lights, like some kind of huge, flat insect.

He comes back to Matt with it, kneels by his side, and asks, cautious, soft and determined: "Can I hold you? I'm kind of cold, too, and we'll both be warmer under that thing."

The polar lights paint him ghastly chilling colors for the few seconds Matt considers it, giving him deadened, pale grey-green skin with shiny silver hair, like some strangely-alive ghost in an unearthly icy fire. His eyes are dark, and his smile is sweet, sad, maybe a little bit shy. But somehow, he manages to radiate the kind of patient hope that speaks of solid, ancient immovable things—of eternities.

"Okay," Matt breathes out, never wanting to deny him anything and never wanting him to be cold. He scoots a little sideways to make room for Kelly against his tree, but Kelly slides an arm around his back, gently making him move forward instead, and settles behind him, legs encompassing him. The emergency blanket comes to rest over them both, draping around Matt's sides and front like crinkling sparkly wings.

With Kelly's arms under it—around him. Holding him.

He unsurely clenches his hands in the pockets of his coat, shivering, but not from the cold, the thing in his chest fluttering wildly. Kelly just gets closer, wrapping himself and the blanket around him more. Holding him tight.

Above them, the polar lights shine on. The wind rustles the trees, and somewhere in the distance there's a wolf howling.

And Matt is warm.

Kelly starts whispering things in his ear—an avalanche of words. "Do you have any idea," he says, voice choked, "any idea at all—" but it's not _how much trouble you've given me_ : "—how many people I met, looking for you, how many people, in all those months, who thought the world of you? How many people you've helped, you've touched—how many people remember you?"

Matt has no idea—how many people he's met, how long it's been, what he should answer—but it's not a question: "Some of them were convinced you were either an angel or the second coming, Matt," Kelly teases softly.

He doesn't give Matt time to say anything though—to think of something to say. "No matter where I went," he continues, his breath tickling the side of Matt's neck, "there were people recognizing you, and they wanted to help me find you—they wanted to help you. They _all_ wanted to help you, Matt—they all cared what happened to you. Because you'd helped them, because you'd _cared_ enough to help them—and don't even think of trying to protest that," he chides gently, just as Matt opens his mouth to do just that. "I know you. I know you still care. Care so much it eats at you, just like you always have."

"I—" Matt chokes out—he's aiming for an _I'm sorry_ again, as a habit, a safe bet, an anchor when he's this confused and this lost—but Kelly doesn't let him say it this time: "Don't," he interrupts, "don't try to say anything, just listen, okay? I just need you to listen."

His voice is raw, but the tone is soft. Matt nods mutely, forming an _Okay_ but producing no sound, and Kelly holds him tighter, making the blanket crinkle, his hair brushing Matt's cheek. Matt shivers again, not from the cold at all, and Kelly holds him tighter still.

"You are," Kelly continues, right into Matt's ear, and his voice is raspy and low, but carrying so much intensity, so much desperation, "the most amazing person— _the most beautiful soul_ , that I have _ever_ met. That anyone who's ever come across you has ever met. You're kind, and caring, and selfless—so selfless, god, you have no sense of self-preservation. You'd do just about anything for just about anybody, and I _know_ part of that is you not thinking much of yourself, but I also know that it's because you value life more than anything— _any_ life. That's why, in a fire, you'd even turn back around for a cat—that's why you helped all those people, you couldn't _not_ help them, it's just the way you are. And that's admirable, Matt—I can't even begin to tell you how much."

He stops for a second, to take a breath, maybe, and Matt takes the opportunity to try and stop him, because he can't take any of this: "It's normal," he croaks, voice nearly useless. His eyes are burning.

Kelly lets out a puff of hot air against his neck. Matt shudders, and gets squished tighter, closer. Warmer.

"No," Kelly says, voice soft as feathers against the patch of skin he's just assaulted, "it's not. D'you think everyone goes around giving away their socks?" He sounds almost amused—fondly, sweetly so, and Matt has no idea what to say: he's never let himself think about any of this, at any point, simply _needing_ to help. He doesn't know what to make of any of this or what to say to any of this and he doesn't understand why Kelly is here _doing this_.

And he has no idea what to do with that _thing_ growing so huge inside his chest.

"You value life," Kelly repeats against him, quietly, intimately, like sharing a secret, "any life, and that includes your own. If you didn't—" he pauses a little, chest heaving too fast against Matt's back for a few seconds, and Matt closes his eyes tightly against the sudden rush of _something_ crashing over him like a downpour. "If you didn't," Kelly continues, sounding raw, "we wouldn't be here. Together. Watching those lights you wanted me to see," he adds more softly.

Matt's eyes pop back open. The polar lights shine green and blurry down on him, down on Kelly's fingers tightly holding the emergency blanket closed over them both. His own hands clench emptily in his pockets, and he swallows uselessly against the lump burning his throat.

"I want you to come home, Matt," Kelly whispers against his ear, "I need you to."

"I don't have a home," Matt chokes out, faintly, automatically. But he thinks it might be a lie, after all: Kelly's here. He's _here_. And Matt feels warm—warm like he hasn't been in forever. Warm and _full_.

"Yes, you do," Kelly answers, steel in the softness of his voice. "You have so many people—so many people in Chicago who love you, Matt. _So many_. And you've got _me_. You'll _always_ have me. You'll always have a home with me, Matt. _Always_. Because I love you—I love you _so much_. And I need you," he adds, tone slipping into pleading. "I need you to come home with me. And I need you to get better—I need you to _let me help you_ get better. To let me look after you— _let me love you_."

A little pause, just a few breaths Matt can _not_ get right at all, dizzy and overwhelmed, overfilled with it all, and Kelly continues—sounding like he's cracking too: "You want me to be happy? You want the best for me? That's you, Matt. That's _you_."

And Matt _breaks_. Cries—turns and cries into Kelly's chest, huge great sobs, bawling like a child, like the child he hasn't been for eternities, like the child who couldn't cry, wasn't allowed to because he was a boy and boys didn't cry, not unless they were disgusting little faggots who should never have been born. He cries and cries and cries, like he's never let himself, because men don't cry any more than boys do, and they don't talk about their feelings, and they don't hug each other, and they don't cling together—they don't love each other.

He clings to Kelly and cries for all the times he _hasn't_ cried, and for the few times he couldn't help cracking a little. He cries for having cried in the arms of a cold-blooded murderer—for having _married_ her, and he cries for maybe having pushed her into this somehow, and because he doesn't understand and never will. He cries for both her and her victim, and he cries because that's unfair of him, because he knows Hallie deserves his tears more than Gabby does, but he's loved them both with all he had and missed them both with all he had and neither of them had ever held him as tightly as Kelly does or ever told him he'll always have a home with them.

He cries for both their families too, and for all their friends, for all the people who've loved them—and for all of the people who've loved _him_. For his mother, who killed because of him, and for his father, who _died_ because of him, like Hallie, and like _Andy_ —he cries for Andy, and for Heather, and for Ben and for Griffin, and he cries for Kelly, and for Shay, for Shay's sister, her whole family, for Vargas _who's not dead_ and Jones who _is_ , and every single fellow firefighter he's ever lost in one way or another. He cries for all the people he's loved even just a little, for all the people he's failed, all the lives he couldn't save or fix or make better _even just a little_. He cries for Katya and every single girl like her, and he even cries for her murderer, because he's the one who killed him and it doesn't matter at all that it was in self-defense, that he'd done it because he didn't want to die, because there was people he didn't want to leave behind.

He cries for the people he's left behind, for his niece and his sister and his mother, all of his crew and all of Kelly's and ambo's and engine's and the Chief and Donna and little Terrence—for all the people he's left behind and all the ones he's met and left along the way, for every single person who's ever been counting on him at any point, for every single person who's ever tried to help him in any way whatsoever. He cries because he's left, because he's sorry, so horribly sorry, because he never, ever wanted to hurt anybody, and he cries because he's grateful, he's so grateful it's impossible to hold anything in.

Most of all, he cries for Kelly. For Kelly who looks like he's lived _ages_ with his heart ripped out of his chest, looking for it everywhere, looking for _him_ everywhere—for Kelly who _came after him_ , all this way, for Kelly who's holding him so tight and not letting go and promising him a home again and again even with his voice all wrecked. He cries for Kelly, because he's so full of love and so awed and so grateful, so grateful _for him_ , it's like he's going to burst and shatter apart, because it's absolutely impossible, to feel so much, to feel so much _for one person_ , and because he _knows_ , because he has no doubts whatsoever, that Kelly can, would and will, pick up every single one of his scattered pieces and put him back together, as many times as it takes.

He cries for Kelly, who's _here_ , and loves him, and holds him, and _loves him_.

And he falls asleep like that: in Kelly's arms, on top of a hill next to a tree, with the polar lights making everything green.

He doesn't know if he dreams. But when he wakes up, what feels like a long time later, the first thing he's aware of is the familiar, comforting scent of Kelly's leather jacket: he finds himself wrapped into it, face half-buried in a pillow that _also_ smells like Kelly, a small mountain of blankets tucked around him tightly. On top of this cocoon, the emergency blanket crinkles as he sits up and confusedly rubs his eyes. The lack of green in the light makes it even more shiny.

It's daytime. He's on the backseat of Kelly's moving car. He's not cold anymore, and he's definitely not alone: Kelly is giving him little glances full of nothing but very, very warm _love_ through the rearview mirror.

Maybe there _are_ such things as miracles after all. Maybe there even are such things as miracles _for him_.

"We're going home," Kelly says, all that warmth in his voice too. "There's milkshakes and energy bars by your feet. Juice and ginger ale, too, if that's easier. Eat. For both of us. Okay?"

"Okay," Matt breathes. And he finds he's smiling.


End file.
